CYCLES

It was gonna be a big summer, you know, a big summer

Every one since then too, "a big summer"

"Gonna be a big summer"

Yet, somehow that's never the case, is it?

It's the sprawl of autumn, isn't it?

It's the crunch, where one can never daytrip

You know living myths can come true

Sometime it might happen to you, especially if you live outside of time

Anyway, the rhyme you are about to hear isn't true

But, it isn't false either

Any resemblance between this rhythm poetic exploration in reality is

Purely magical, purely magical

At the end of the world, we was fightin' back with brushes and pens

We decided that the suffering should end, no matter how good it feels

Wooden shields ain't stoppin' ******s

So we dropped those, quit lyin' to ourselves

Started writin' poems, got stronger by ourselves

Kinship bein' the hunger that we felt, so we trusted that

Made moves from it

Got busted backs, bruised stomachs

Ruby yacht, whole crew illustrious

We did those stints, tenures, benders, bent censures, spent ledgers

Unyielding, a taste of they own medicine

Every member is also president

How could you stop what you can't clot, hmm?

If within the last century

Art conceived as an autonomous activity has come to be invested with an unprecedented stature

The nearest thing to a sacramental human activity acknowledged by secular society

It is because one of the tasks art has assumed is making forays into

And taking up positions on the frontiers of consciousness and reporting back what's there

Being a freelance explorer of spiritual dangers

The artist gains a certain license to behave differently

Matching with singularity of the vocation

They may be decked out with a suitably eccentric lifestyle, or not

Their job is to invent trophies of experience

But things go backwards, the wrong people get placards

You get a collection of spatulas, heavy brow lines

Sacrificing down time for the wrong guys' good graces

Shoulda held them aces and betted on self

Eventually we're all just heads on a shelf

Trophies in cupboards, mopey customer

Doping up for a big day again, really it bores me

We're the stuff that's so boring, hijacking stories

Sapping the gold from the blood

MOG started from MUD

Be the first ones to judge

Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work

Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth

Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work

Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth

Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work

Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth

Swear I just know my worth

Funny how cycles work, funny how cycles work

Swear I just know my worth, swear I just know my worth

Funny how cycles work

Peace to the eternal spirit and soul of the grandmaster Jack Whitten. An idea is a work of art. From Chicago, Illinois to Bessamer, Alabama. An idea is a work of art

Peace, peace, peace, peace